


The Anatomy of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson

by triforcelegends8



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cute, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, i think it's cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triforcelegends8/pseuds/triforcelegends8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes to visit the flat for the first time in two years and finds something shocking enough to stop his breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> First try at a Johnlock fanfic, this will be a quick love kinda story in the later chapters. I will write as often as i can and update when i finish the next chapter. Hope you like it! Enjoy!

He stood on the sidewalk trying to work up the courage to enter the god-forsaken flat building. It had been two years. Two years full of anguish, regret, sorrow, and just downright depression. Two years since he had been in the flat, talking with, more often yelling at, Sherlock, clearing away experiments discovered while cleaning, and blogging about their cases solved together. About Sherlock.

John Watson could feel his eyes start to water at the painful recollections and quickly wiped his eyes, not wanting to let his emotions force him to back down. He moved forward, fetching the keys out of his pocket, his mind focused on getting his hands to work properly instead of remembering the tender memories about Sherlock.

He was finally able to grasp the key, unlock the door, and step inside without much more trouble. Once inside, he closed the door and leaned against it, sighing. Since that was now over with he thought about what he should do next. He didn’t think he’s have the strength to enter the flat ever again. He had tried before, but the memories overwhelmed him if he got too close to the building.

After much contemplation and staring at the ceiling, he decided to clear his throat and call out, “He-hello?” Silence. He spoke again, louder this time. “Mrs. Hudson? Are you…. Is anyone here?” Hearing no response from inside the flat, John sighed deeply, feeling a bit crushed that he had to do this alone. Mrs. Hudson was most likely on vacation, judging from the silence in the building and the amount of dust coating the banisters of the stairs. John’s eyes stopped. The stairs that led to their flat.

An expression of pure misery covered John’s face like the dust on the stairs. Just because he could and _should_ face this alone, definitely did not mean he wanted to. But he had to do this. He _had_ to. He was so tired of being afraid to face the subject that everyone knew was constantly on his mind. The subject of….. Sherlock being gone. Forever. John would never be able to hear his deep voice regularly rant about how stupid everyone else was or see the delight in his eyes when he solved a particularly tough case. And he knew that could never happen again. Sherlock was gone.

John chocked on an unexpected sob and covered his mouth with his hand, his cheeks feeling wet. He hadn’t realized he was crying. His eyes were blurry and felt heavy and the tears made hot streams down his face. With the hem of his tan jumper, John wiped away the tears and took a few slow breaths to calm himself. If he continued to break down here, there was a good chance he would never make it any further.

Once he felt calmer, John started towards the stairs, taking slow, careful steps as if trying to keep the dust undisturbed. His breathing was strained from his throat feeling constricted and he could hear his heart beating and the blood rushing in is ears. He shook his head and wiped the sweat from his brow. _Why does this have to be so hard?_ He thought. _Just walk upstairs like you always did._ He took another step upstairs and looked down at his legs and hands. They were shaking.

John sighed again feeling utterly defeated. He could feel his legs wanting to give out and could feel the need to collapse and sob on the floor. But he knew he had to this. He needed to accept what had happened, and what better way than by visiting the place where all memories made in the past happened? He looked back up focusing on the stairs and moving one foot after the other. His mind was awhirl with all things Sherlock.

When they would run through London, chasing killers, or when they would argue whether or not the universe was important to know, or how there was an underlying current of something that could have been more that friendship… No he couldn’t think of him like that now. Regretting the things that didn’t happen wasn’t going to help him at all. He had found somebody else anyways. Someone who hadn’t left him in the worst two years of his life.

John swallowed the anger that submerged trying to focus on happier thoughts and feelings. He inhaled quickly, to make sure he didn’t hold his breath from his jumbled emotions and pass out. He stopped abruptly and felt a weight drop in his gut when he realized he had reached the top of the stairs and was staring at the door to the flat. He could feel his heart beating in his throat and the sweat gathering on his palms from his anxiety. Recognizing the need to breath, he exhaled the held in breath and did his best to breath normally, like he wasn’t battling for his life.

Keys in hand, John suddenly lurched forward towards the door before he could back down. With a light push, the door swung open, but he shut his eyes. The thought of seeing the flat was almost too much, let alone actually seeing it. His breathing took on a shaking edge as he contemplated what he could do. The only way, he decided, to make sure he didn’t turn tail and leave the awful building was to take a few steps forward and enter the flat, eyes still closed.

John did just that and also settled to close the door behind him. He took a great breath, practically inhaling dust, and slowly opened his eyes. When he saw who was in front of him he stopped. Stopped breathing, stopped moving, stopped thinking.

Because there, standing little more than a few feet from him,

Was Sherlock Holmes.


	2. A Beating Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will John accept that Sherlock's heart has been beating these past two years?

John stood, frozen in place, only a few feet away from his supposedly dead friend. His mouth was agape and his eyes were remarkably wide.

“Hello, John.” Sherlock said softly like he thought John was a frightened animal and would run off at any moment.

John didn’t respond, merely took a breath, gasping in air to cool his oxygen-deprived lungs. Sherlock decided to take a step towards him to give comfort, but John flinched, his face full of pain and confusion, making Sherlock stop.

“John…” He started, not sure what to say to the man. He hadn’t really had any experience at calming or comforting someone in his life. But, for John’s sake, he had to start learning. He was his only friend and Sherlock didn’t want to lose him because of his lack of knowledge in this area.

“John, I… Well obviously I’m not dead…” He said in a slightly shaky voice. When the shorter man just glared at him, saying nothing, Sherlock continued. “I’m sure… you’ve got questions. Or at least want answers.” Silence and anger enveloped the two in an almost tangible cloak and Sherlock suddenly found it a little harder to breath under John’s unyielding stare.

He swallowed and locked eyes with the shorter man. In them, were too many emotions for Sherlock to comprehend. There was anger, of course. That much was expected. But it seemed John was hiding…. No restraining something else. The tenseness in his body said as much. Whether it was the need to deck the detective in the face or embrace him, he could not tell.

“John. Please say something.” Mumbled the taller man, trying to edge his voice with remorse and distress.

Instead of saying something, John took two long strides forward, making the distance between them disappear. They were close enough to each other that Sherlock could feel the heat from his body through both of their clothes. Still and silent they stood for what seemed like hours to the detective, while John’s hard gaze made him feel absolutely inferior. _What is he thinking?_ Sherlock thought, a bit taken aback at his inability to discern the doctor’s thoughts. _Is he angry? Sad? Happy? Afraid?_ To Sherlock, it seemed all these were possible emotions and more.

Eventually, John moved, interrupting the detective’s though process, his hand hesitantly being brought up to his face. When John’s rough fingers touched the soft skin of the detective’s cheek, he made a noise in the back of his throat, a mix between a whimper and a sigh.

_He’s making sure I’m really here._ Sherlock thought pitifully. _But why?... Have things like this happened before?_

Suddenly, John retracted his hand, halting Sherlock’s internal conversation, and began muttering to himself, “No, no, no… Stop it, stop it. This isn’t- this can’t-“ He sounded like was choking on the words that begged to tumble forth from his mouth and the dark-haired man feared that John might have a panic attack from all that was happening right now.

“John… I’m… Stop what?” He asked, his voice calm.

“…Stop this. Stop this Sher-“, he cut himself off and looked at Sherlock through red-ringed eyes and confusion. “No…” He said to himself and turned away from the man to gather himself.

A few minutes passed of John muttering ‘No’ and ‘Stop this’ over and over again before he gave a heart-wrenching wail and his hands shot up to his head, pulling at his hair. Sherlock jumped and began to reach towards the man when John abruptly turned around and screamed “No! Don’t touch me! You are not here! This isn’t real! You’re- you- you…”

John had tears streaming down his face, his cheeks were flushed and his whole body was shaking.

Quickly and urgently, Sherlock spoke. “John. No, I’m… I’m here. This is real. I’m here…” his voice faded as he focused on slowly reaching for John’s hand and gently grabbing it. Before he could pull back, Sherlock led their hands to his own chest, on top of his heart.

“See? I’m here… I’m… alive, John.”

John whispered, “No… I… I saw you… you… from the building…”

Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat. “No. John, look. I’m here. You can feel my heart beating, can’t you? I’m alive. It was… all a trick. All of it was fake.” He stared at John, a desperate, pleading in his eyes for him to understand that he was _here_. Alive.

The sandy-haired man pulled his hand back a bit too quickly to be understanding and said, “You… you lied to me, Sherlock. Made me think you were-“ he grimaced, struggling to continue. “-dead… I… I trusted you and you lied… Why?”

“I… I… Um…” Sherlock stumbled over the words in his mouth, trying to get his thoughts straight. After hearing John trusted him, he had trouble believing that anyone, _anyone_ , could give so much faith to him of all people. He cleared his throat when he noticed John was staring at him, waiting for an answer.

“I… had to. Moriarty would have-“ Sherlock closed his mouth, not sure if sharing the information of John’s possible death by sniper would be a good idea. “…he would have ended me. Permanently.”

John looked to the ground, taking in the data begrudgingly. “Why now.” He said more as a demand than a question.

“I had to stop Moriarty’s network. All of his contacts, all devices, everything. It took two years even though I-“ He halted afraid he had already said too much.

But John caught his slip-up. “Hm? Even though you what?” He said in a challenging tone.

Sherlock sighed and his shoulders drooped. “… Even though I… had help.” It wasn’t just the admittance of the great Sherlock Holmes does, in fact, need help occasionally, but also that he knew John would be angry that he hadn’t known about Sherlock’s fake death when others had.

“What?” John’s voice rose in exasperation to Sherlock’s answer. “Help from who?”

“Mmmm… My brother…” he said guiltily.

He made a sound of disbelief, shaking his head slightly. “Who else, Sherlock? I know there’s someone else. I can tell you’re keeping things from me. Come on. Just lay it on me. You like getting to the point anyways.” He pointed out accusingly.

Sherlock sighed in deep regret at his failed approach to tell John he was very much not dead. “Molly. And… s-some of my homeless network…”

John huffed. “And?”

“That’s… that’s it.” He said, his voice dropping, an unconscious submission to John’s anger.

Instead of looking John in the face, he looked everywhere but. The floor, the bookshelf, his hands, John’s god-awful jumper, the wall. He finally chanced a look at the man and instantly regretted he had done so. Instead of anger, which Sherlock was quite confident he could deal with, he saw a deep sadness that seemed permanently etched onto his face. And beneath that layer of sadness of his features, was relief.

Sherlock’s eyes widened at this realization. He had only prepared himself for his friend’s wrath, not his sorrow and solace. He did not know how to proceed with John now. Suddenly he remembered a show he had watched at one point (John trying to prove Sherlock was a human being after all) where the character apologized to his friend for taking his things. Not quite the same situation but an apology seemed to be needed nonetheless.

“John…. I… I apologize. No- I’m sorry.” He said, knowing saying ‘I’m sorry’ instead of just apologizing would definitely make a difference.

John’s lips thinned and he shook his head. He was staring right at Sherlock and he knew that Sherlock meant what he had said. But that did not mean everything was okay between them. They both knew as much. “You’re sorry.”

“…Yes, John... I… didn’t want to hurt you-“

John chuckled.

“-but I had no choice to do what I did. Please understand that. John, I’m sorry.”

Abruptly, John moved. Sherlock could see his stance widen, his arm rear back, and his hand clench into a fist. He could dodge it, would have, if it had been any other point in time. But he knew that he deserved at least one punch and had a feeling that if he did dodge it, John would come after him, giving him more than one punch.

So instead of moving out of the way, Sherlock flinched and braced himself for the blow. When he felt, John’s knuckles connect with his cheekbone, he grunted and fell to the ground from the force of it. Instinctively, he brought his hand up to his face where he was hit, feeling the sting from the small split skin on his cheek. He looked back up at John slowly, a bit afraid to anger him more with the wrong movement.

John’s eyes were burning into Sherlock’s and he was panting from the anger. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides and he struggled to keep from yelling at the man. Sherlock was looking up at John, a guarded, fearful expression in his eyes. They stayed that way for a few minutes, the air filling with anger and fear, before the detective tried to speak.

“John, I-“

“Don’t.” John said tersely, cutting the man off.

Sherlock swallowed, hating his own incompetence for this kind of situation. He went back to thinking of times he had seen people apologize and then everything had been okay. Had Sherlock not done that? What was he doing wrong? John was just being an overreacting, sentimental human. Right?

John huffed and turned towards the door, opened it, and started down the stairs, jarring Sherlock from his thoughts.

“John, wait. Where are you-“

“Leave me alone, Sherlock.” John said, anger evident from the heavy steps on the stairs.

“Why? What did I do wrong? John!” He shouted. John stopped and turned towards Sherlock, giving him a moment to speak. Sherlock continued slowly. “John, I… I’m sorry. I apologized. What else is there?”

John shook his head in disbelief and his chest and face swelled with angry breaths. “You think, Sherlock, that if you just say a couple words to me, that everything’s okay?”

“Well… yes.” Sherlock replied, confused.

“Then you’re more of an idiot than I thought you were. Stay away from me, Sherlock. I don’t want to see you again. Ever. Do you understand me?”

Sherlock nodded solemnly, watching his friend descend the steps to the floor of the building. He could hear him yank the door open and slam it closed behind him, making sure Sherlock knew he was angry. Though you didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that out.

Once he was sure that John was gone, not coming back and not standing outside calming himself, Sherlock picked himself up from the floor and went to the bathroom to clean up his face. He gently cleaned the small wound with water and then disinfectant, covering it with a piece of gauze and tape. Not the best way to take care of a wound, but it would have to do since he didn’t have a doctor to take care of it for him.

He closed the medicine cabinet he got the disinfectant from and looked in the mirror. He looked like a mess. His hair was sticking up everywhere, his face was, well, injured, and he looked paler than usual. Confused, he took his pulse. Slightly elevated. Why? He couldn’t be feeling anxiety over having lost John, could he? The signs were there and he knew that the facts didn’t lie.

Sherlock sighed and thought it best to get some sleep. There was no way he could solve cases on only a few hours of sleep over the last month and his mind focusing on his failure involving John. He changed into a t-shirt and baggy pajama bottoms before climbing into bed. As his breathing slowed, telltale signs that his body needed rest, he began to drift into the comforting thought of sleep. Maybe tomorrow John would be calm enough to see that he was overreacting and would come to his senses.


	3. His Mind, His Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thinks about what he can do to get John back.

Sherlock awoke slowly, taking his time to actually get up. There wasn’t much to get up to. He didn’t have a case. Lestrade didn’t know yet and since no one knew that he was back, no one could come to see him to solve their mundane problems. He didn’t have an experiment going right now. Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to leave all of his things more or less untouched, but he didn’t have all the items he needed to start a new project. And he knew that there were more important things to attend to.

Like John. He hadn’t anticipated the man to leave after he punched Sherlock. He did expect the punch itself, well that was one of the scenarios he thought might happen. But none of his scenarios involved John telling him to stay away and that he didn’t want to ever see him again.

A pang of guilt stabbed through Sherlock’s chest. Maybe he could have been more sensible to John and his emotions? But the problem was that he didn’t know how to be more sensible. He’d never had to do anything like apologizing before because no one had been close enough to deserve an apology.

But John was different. When he had first met him, Sherlock thought the man ordinary, plain, dull. Boring. But how wrong he had been. John was everything but. How he had managed to put up with Sherlock was beyond him. Any other sane person could barely stand more than a few minutes with him, let alone a few years sharing the same flat.

John had, in many ways, saved him. Literally saved his life on more than one occasion, yes. But John had helped Sherlock in way no one could ever hope to fully understand. He had tried to resist John’s subtle, and most likely unconscious, attempts to help him. But, in the end, the detective gave in, changing himself, it seemed, for the better. John had helped him learn that he did, in fact, need someone around to keep him from going fully insane. He had helped him learn he was not a complete sociopath, but just used the title as a scare tactic towards normal people that annoyed him. He had helped him learn that he could _feel_.

He did have feeling towards a select few. Even though he never would admit the fact out loud to anyone, the signs were there to tell their story. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and, most of all, John. There was no denying he had feelings for John. And not only the caring feeling he held for the others, but something more. Something so completely foreign to the detective, he had trouble staying focused on work when his mind wandered to anything involving John.

Before his Fall, thoughts of John visited him more and more frequently, distracting him from The Game. He would think of all the times John would smile or unsuccessfully try to suppress a laugh at Sherlock’s stinging sarcasm and unruly wit. When their shoulders would brush or they were leaned close to each other over the computer, Sherlock’s heart would beat a little harder. He could feel his pulse quicken in his neck and he struggled to keep his breathing normal, no matter how boring the task could be.

He was always afraid John would notice his struggle and would ask what was wrong. Sherlock could, of course, lie to him, like he did everyone else, and say something like he just needed a patch. But John wasn’t everyone else. He had rarely lied to that man and when he did, it was for good reasons like protecting him. He would have to answer truthfully: he didn’t know what was wrong.

That he had no idea what was wrong with him and what these mental and physical feelings meant terrified him. Sherlock couldn’t decipher what it meant whenever did something as little as look in his direction, he would feel and overwhelming sense of calm and happiness. And when the man would touch him, not consciously just like a normal person does every once in a while, Sherlock’s stomach became light and his head became dizzy (he had researched the feeling and discovered they were ‘butterflies in your stomach’). But none of that mattered now since John made his position clear last night.

Sherlock sighed and rolled over on his side. He looked at the clock. It was almost 9 in the morning. He had been lying there thinking about John for a good hour. The mere thought of thinking about someone that long baffled that detective and further confused him that he had actually achieved it. He grunted and threw the sheets off of him thin frame, making his way towards the kitchen for tea. Since Mrs. Hudson was on vacation thanks to Mycroft sending the woman a voucher for a vacation in the mail that she thought she had won spontaneously, Sherlock would have to make him own tea this morning at least.

As he went through the motions of filling the pot about halfway full of water and getting the teacups- no, no, teacup, single- out, he thought of what he could do today. He knew he needed to see John and convince him that he was, indeed, very, very sorry and that John was right. He was right about everything that he had ever said. Sherlock wasn’t a fake, he believed in Sherlock Holmes, that Sherlock was an idiot. He was such an idiot for doing what he did to John.

Sherlock had tricked the man into thinking that he was dead. That he was a fake and that he deserved to die because of his being such a fake. He was such an idiot for doing that to John. He needed him to understand that he acknowledged this and he needed John to come back and help him live again. He needed his help on cases, at home when he was bored so he could read his funny little blog about their life, and he needed him everywhere. John had saved him but he had also exploited a weakness and everyone knew it. John becoming his best friend was his weakness.

Sherlock let out a frustrated breath as the teapot screeched and he poured the water into the cup, mixing it with the bland flavor of tea- most likely expired but oh well, it wouldn’t do too much harm- feeling almost completely back at home. But one thing was missing. John- damn him for ever needing a flatmate.

Nothing was the same without John. There was an emptiness to the flat that could only be filled by the man sitting in his chair drinking tea and berating Sherlock for being such a dick or by him sitting at the desk, typing away about their most recently solved- sometimes unsolved- case. Sherlock would often express disgust at the man’s blog, calling it dull and ‘harmful and inflicting’. But he was only teasing. He didn’t know why he did it. It was just fun to see John, who knew Sherlock was playing around, smile when Sherlock would make a rude remark involving him and his ‘boring’ blog.

Sherlock smiled a bit, relishing the memory. He finished his tea and made his way over to his dusty chair, across from John’s, to think. What he needed to do was somehow talk to John without the man throwing a multitude of punches at him. However, every scenario Sherlock thought of ended in him getting decked by the doctor. But there was a small chance that if Sherlock could get what he needed to say out, then John might calm down enough to listen to the rest of it.

Sherlock nodded to himself, determined to make John understand that he was sorry, he needed him, and that he would do everything possible to make it up to him. He got up from the chair and went to put on his usual attire: a suit with his scarf and coat. Once he was dressed he realized that he had no idea where John was. He hadn’t asked Mycroft because he deduced John would visit the flat that day. It was actually the day of his Fall. Fitting that he would come to the flat to see Sherlock alive that day that the detective vanished from his life for two years.

He closed his eyes, focusing on entering his mind palace to access the memories of John last night. Tense shoulders from overuse. Not as tense legs, that means he would stand but not have to use his legs or feet in any other way. Bags under his eyes, most likely from being woken up in the middle of the night because of an emergency. Hands are calloused from constant use of tools. The limp in his right leg and the shaking in his hand is back but not as intense which means he has something exiting happening every once in while but not enough to keep the limp and shaking away. Most likely working as a checkup doctor and is called in for emergencies every now and then.

Now where does he work? The smell. All hospitals have that too clean, but still sick smell, but they all have their tell. John smelled of bleach and a hint of lemon. Most of it was on his clothes. Which one smelled that way throughout the place, especially when you walked under an A/C? Of course. St. Andrews Hospital. Sherlock flipped his coat collar up and headed out the door to meet John. No matter how this unexpected meeting would go, Sherlock was determined to get his friend back.


	4. And Then He Was Silent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it brave or stupid for Sherlock to confront John again?

When Sherlock reached St. Andrew’s, he paid the cabbie and made his way up to the doorway. He stepped through the automatic sliding glass door and inhaled through his nose. Lemon and bleach. Definitely the right place. He was glad he had recorded the interaction in his mind with John the night before for later reference in case of something like this. With his hands in his pockets, the detective made his way through the people in wheelchairs, with canes, people on gurneys, and the hundreds of nurses and doctors that rushed around the main waiting room. God people were everywhere weren’t they? Sherlock dreaded places like this where everyone was nice to everyone else, using false smiles and deceiving words of comfort. But they did seem to care, but he didn’t see how lying to their faces would help anyone.

Sherlock was no different except in the fact that he actually didn’t care about people’s feelings. He lied and used fake smiles to his advantage. To gain entry to normally restricted places, to attain information from guarded people, and most of all just to have fun every once in a while. With lying in mind, the detective made his way up to the front desk where a blonde- dyed, normally dark hair, dyed to cheer patients up, shows intelligence- woman- mid 20’s from the looks of her face with the lack of wrinkles around her eyes, nose, and ,mouth- sat talking cheerfully to someone on the other end of the phone. As he neared the woman, he could see a name badge. Josephine- family name most likely. He could also see a single piece of jewelry on her finger. It didn’t look like a wedding ring. Not flashy enough for someone like her- In a relationship, either long term or quick to attach to the person and that person is the same way. He could just make out lines of lighter flesh on a few of her other fingers- many relationships, means she attaches quickly and that usually ends up in the break up because of her over-attachment.

When Sherlock reached the desk, she had finished up talking to whoever had been on the other end of the phone- from her chipper attitude, possibly the one she was with now- and had her full attention on him. He hands were now folded- right thumb on the outside of left, means she is right-handed- gently on the desk, patient yet expectant- typical nurse attitude.

“Can I help you?” She asked in a sweet voice. Her eyes were attentive and kind.

Boring.

“Yes, yes! Uhrm…. I have this…. problem…” He said feigning shyness and fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket and hem of his scarf. “Well… I mean I’d rather just talk to my doctor about it…. If that’s ok?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“Oh! Yes of course! That’s no problem!” Perfect. Playing on people’s emotions and weakpoints really was too easy. “May I have your name and number? I can set an appointment right away.”

Sherlock’s face faltered for a moment. He completely neglected the fact that he would have had to make an appointment. “Oh, um….Actually, he told me to come see him when it started again and pronto.”

“Okay… May I have your doctor’s name?” She asked, a bit confused. She was definitely going to call him up and ask about a patient that he had told to see him whenever he needed.

For a few seconds Sherlock just stood there running through all of the possibilities of what could happen next. If he told the woman who the doctor was, she would call him and he would either come to the front to see who it was or tell them to make an appointment. Really making the appointment itself was no trouble, it was the information he would have to leave. He couldn’t leave his name and number. He would never get in that way. If he did tell her that would mean she would have to find the office number, most likely looking it up on the computer, which means if he could sneak a look at it, he could find out what room he was in. If he just left and told her never mind, she would become suspicious and call someone else to find out what the problem was.

Trying to look at the computer seemed like the best way to go. “Yes, uhrm… Dr. Watson.” He watched Josephine as she turned towards the computer and typed into the keyboard blindingly fast. Within seconds, she had a page pulled up giving them information on Dr. Watson. Quickly, Sherlock made a noise of relief and pointed to someone down the hall and said, “Oh! Isn’t that him?”

The woman turned around in her chair to get a good look at whomever Sherlock seemed to be pointing at while the detective leaned over the desk and quickly scanned the computer monitor. Doctor John H. Watson. Phone number, birthdate, eye color, hair color, hospital id, and- ah there it was- room number, 127. First floor, left side. Wonderful.

“Um…. I don’t believe so, sir…” She turned around to talk to the shy man, but he was already walking towards where he had pointed- simply to make her think he really thought that the stranger was Dr. Watson.

Sherlock was halfway down the hall when he checked to make sure Josephine was no longer looking and made a left turn at the next hallway that appeared. His shoes clicked lightly mixed with the sound of rushed, muffled feet and the occasional squeak of wheels. His head whipped from side to side checking out the room numbers. He was at room 120, when he saw him.

John was walking towards him in jeans and a button-down shirt with a clipboard in his hand that had his absolute attention. His brow was slightly furrowed and his mouth was puckered a bit- the signs that he was dealing with something troubling. Sherlock stopped immediately and looked for a place to hide. There was nowhere to hide except for other patients’ rooms, which could cause more attention than not. Sherlock was beginning to panic, yet he had no clue why. Maybe it was because he knew that no matter how this meeting went, John would most likely still tell him to stay away. Or possibly because he felt like he was trapped between leaving the scene- which would be a failure, and he could not accept- or because he felt John would be angry and he didn’t want him to be angry again. Especially at his place of work where his job also depended on his attitude and actions.

So, instead of acting, Sherlock stood in the middle of the hallway and stared John down as he neared. Maybe he could convey his apology though staring- not likely- and not have to use troublesome words to attempt to explain his actions. Words were always misinterpreted into something different than what they were meant to be. And in Sherlock’s case, sincere words seemed even more insincere than most people mainly because he hadn’t had enough practice with being sincere.

Suddenly, Sherlock saw John stop. He looked up and saw him staring wide-eyed at the detective, his mouth agape. He had stopped moving completely and now Sherlock, and not the clipboard, had his full attention. The look in his eyes said that he hadn’t really expected the man to come near him again after being punched in the face, but they also held something like triumph. Triumph that he had a friend that wasn’t going to be deterred by his outbursts of temper.

“John-“

“No. What the hell are you doing here? I told you stay away.” He said in a slightly shaking voice. Surely not from anxiety at seeing him again? Maybe partially. Ah. It was anger. That was a bit not good.

“I- I came to tell you I’m sorry. Please understand. I had to do what I did. If I didn’t-“

Abruptly, John dropped the clipboard and closed the space between him and Sherlock, clenched fists at his sides. Sherlock held up his hands in a defensive manner and continued talking. This could only work if he spoke very, very quickly.

“John. I’m sorry I left. That I tricked you. That I lied to you. I had to. I know, I should have told you-“, Sherlock began to back up as John drew closer and closer, “but I couldn’t unless I was fine with you- Unless I wanted you to-“, His back hit the wall and John was only a few feet away, his arm raised a bit in preparation for a hit. Sherlock wanted his words to tell John about his possible death. If he didn’t say it, he realized, John would probably never forgive him.

“Unless I wanted you to die!” He yelled, panicking, closing his eyes as the shorter man reared back his arm. Then there was silence. The punch didn’t come and there was no resounding echo of skin hitting bone. There was only a tense silence.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and saw John’s face contorted with anger and his arm held behind his head, still in position to hit the man. He lowered his hands from in front of his face to show that he trusted John and to talk to him like a civilized person. “John… I am sorry. Please believe me. I never meant to- to hurt you like this…”

“You’ve got some nerve, Sherlock.” John said tensely.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied.

“… What do you mean ‘unless you wanted me to die’?” He finally asked solemnly.

“I…” Sherlock sighed, finally giving up on keeping this information a secret. “Moriarty said he had gunmen trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Unless I completed his story and killed myself out of shame at being a fake, he would kill the three you…. leaving me alone forever.”

Sherlock’s eyes roamed John’s face, looking for any signs of anger or of- hopefully- forgiveness. When his eyes stopped on John’s, he found it hard to breath. There were too many emotions swimming beneath those eyes to be able to grasp what any of them were. Most of it was confusion. John was confused about how he should feel concerning the information and what he should do now.

John, finally realizing he still had his arm up, lowered his limb and let it hang limply by his side. Sherlock began deducing people like he always did, but this time it was over concern for John’s well being. Tired- up all last night probably. Weak- too much work today, no breaks so far. Eyes were heavy lidded and had dark circles under them- no sleep since…. two? No, three days ago. All of that combined with the information Sherlock just dumped on him was too much for the man to bear and Sherlock knew it.

“John, are you alright? It didn’t happen and I’m… alive. Everything’s fine.” He said cautiously.

“Yeah, I’m… fine.” John replied quietly. Definitely not fine. “Sherlock, I…” He checked his watch and cursed. “I- we can’t talk about this right now… But we need to continue this, understand?”

Sherlock nodded and the corners of his mouth quirked up. He had gotten to him. There was a very good chance of him getting his friend back for good now that John was willing to listen to him. John looked down at the ground for a few moments before looking back up at Sherlock. He looked expectant that Sherlock would not betray him again. And he wouldn’t. He never would again.

“Alright. I’ll see you at the flat then?” Sherlock asked, though he already knew the answer. “Yeah, yeah.... Sure...” He said and watched as Sherlock removed himself from between the wall and himself and started down the hallway at a quicker pace than usual. “And Sherlock?” He called before he was out of earshot.

Sherlock turned around, eyebrows raised.

“Thanks.” He said simply.

Sherlock looked a bit confused and was about to ask why he was thanking him, when John smiled and turned around and made his way down the hall in the opposite direction. He mumbled to himself as he watched John walk to his door and enter the room, “Yes. Thank you, John.”


	5. When The Eyes Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have their meeting in the flat. How will it go?

Several hours later, John was off work and Sherlock was sitting in his chair at the flat. He had his violin out- thankfully it wasn’t in too bad of shape from neglect- and was dragging the bow across its strings lazily, emitting a long, deep note from the instrument. The detective was expecting John any minute now and was only doing something with his hands to pass the time. His mind was also occupied on how their, hopefully more civil, conversation would go.

John was normally a level-headed man when it came to Sherlock and he gave him props for that. However, anytime when the dark-haired man would push the doctor just past his limits, it was devastating. John wouldn’t hurt anyone, not physically anyways. He would always yell and rant at Sherlock about how much of a ‘machine’ he was and how much of an ‘idiot he could be for being the smartest man in the world’. Even if he didn’t show it, the words hurt coming from John. The detective knew that John was only expressing his exasperation by the only apparent way he knew how, which was yelling anything that came to mind. But that didn’t make the words hurt any less.

Sherlock let out a deep sigh and got up from the seat, repositioning the bow on the violin strings. To him, music, done correctly, was perfection. It never asked, never insulted, and never yelled. But just because it wasn’t human, did not mean it couldn’t feel- couldn’t _see_. His violin heard and saw everything that went on in the flat and it spoke about them with Sherlock whenever they were together. When the detective held and played the instrument, it was as if he was caressing a lover that would always be there for him.

It was there for him now as he began to move the bow back and forth across the body of the beautiful instrument. It spoke to him now, telling him that everything was fine, everything was okay. It spoke, telling him of the times before he had left, of happier times. It could speak and raise its voice and proclaim all of the feelings from here, to the rest of the world without ever yelling. It was patient and calm in a way no human could ever hope to be. Always listening and declaring his feelings and thoughts through the soft, subtle cries of emotions. Always speaking to him kindly, attentively, convincing him he was, indeed, human.

He was facing the window behind his chair, eyes closed, effectively shutting out the world around him. All attention was so focused on his playing, he didn’t even hear when John entered the room nor feel his stare at his back. The man just stood there, watching him play his heart, his soul, out to an unknown audience. As the last of the notes finished speaking and faded into silence, Sherlock lowered his arms and opened his now damp eyes. He hadn’t realized he had started crying, he rarely cried. Only when he was too bored to do anything-literally crying from boredom does happen to Sherlock Holmes- and if he was hurt beyond words.

Sherlock jumped when he heard clapping from behind him. He turned swiftly around to see John with a slight smile on his lips and his hands applauding the detective. “John.” He said, startled. “I didn’t know you had come up.” He added almost as an afterthought.

“Yeah.” John replied simply. “I got off work a little bit ago and I said I’d come by. To talk and all.”

“Yes. You did. Well um…” Sherlock looked around the room, noticing the state of the flat, it was filthy. He quickly dismissed the fact, telling himself it was too late to clean up a bit now. He walked towards the violin case, a bit embarrassed, not by how untidy the room was, but by John seeing him vulnerable. When he played the violin, he poured all of his being into the act, leaving him feeling exposed when people watched without his knowledge.

Instrument put up, hopefully along with his embarrassment, he turned his attention to John. “Would you like some tea, John?” He asked, trying to break the awkward tension between them.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure. Thanks.” He said, looking around the flat with his hands clasped behind his back. John was taking in the room for, really, the first time. Last night he hadn’t been able to do so because the man he thought was dead was actually alive and standing before him in the flat. He looked at the chairs, where almost everyday he and Sherlock had sat and talked about a case or people or the primary school knowledge he lacked. He smiled and let his gaze wander to where the detective was fixing tea for them both. He hadn’t been able to stare at the man like this almost for ever. Never really got to appreciate him for, not just his mind, but his looks as well.

Without warning Sherlock turned around, a mug of tea in each hand. John didn’t have time to look away and the detective caught the man staring at him. He blushed and made his way towards his chair. The chair he used to sit in before Sherlock’s Fall. He handed John one of the cups, a black one with blue rings around it, and sat in the chair opposite him. For a few moments, they both sat there and sipped at their tea, chancing looks at each other when they weren’t looking.

Finally, John cleared his throat and set his cup down saying, “Well, what do you have to tell me?”

Well, that was certainly a loaded question. Sherlock set his tea down as well and stared off into space for a minute before answering, “Very much, John.” It was all he could come up with, given the vagueness of the question.

“Well. Go on then.” John said, a bit bemused.

“What do you want to know?” Sherlock asked instead. John’s face dropped and became serious.

“Everything, Sherlock.”

“Well… I am obviously not dead.”

“Yes. That is obvious.”

Silence. This was harder than Sherlock thought it would be. Although he also thought John would be a bit more specific in his questioning. The detective grabbed the mug again and took his time taking small sips from the tea so he could think of how he could tell him _everything_.

“Okay let me help you out. Why did you do it?” He supplied helpfully. Sherlock swallowed and licked his lips. That was too easy. This would go better than he thought.

“Moriarty had to be stopped. If I didn’t ‘kill myself’ and complete the story then he would have killed others and nothing would have been different except for the fact that I would most likely be actually dead. He would have kept up his activities without anyone to stop him. When I got on the roof, there were few possibilities of escape, so I had to trick him and his network into thinking I was dead. Luckily, Moriarty killed himself on the roof that day, so I didn’t have to worry about him not keeping his promises to not shoot you and the others. Once that was done, I knew that-“

“No. Sherlock,” John cut him off, “I don’t care why you _had_ to do it. I want to know why you _didn’t_ tell me. Why you left me in the dark about it for two years. I died that day, Sherlock, and you let it happen. And then you come back here and expect me to be oh so happy that you lied to me? No. No way. Tell me why you did this to me.” John folded his arms across his chest, staring Sherlock down in an attempt to force the answers out of him by looking at him.

“Oh…” Sherlock said, a bit halted by how he was to go about telling John why he did what he did to him. “That’s a bit harder to explain…” He said, trying to worm his way out of the explanation.

“I’ve got all night.” John retorted intimidatingly.

The detective stared at the floor, expressionless, trying to put together a way to tell John the reasons behind him keeping his ‘death’ a secret. Any normal person would say he looked depressed with his face slack and his eyes staring off into space, but John knew better. He knew that Sherlock was thinking about what to say and how to say it to procure the least consequences. In this way, Sherlock was thankful John was not any normal person. He was thankful that John knew his friend better than anyone else.

“I… Couldn’t risk it, John.” He said finally, after a long hush in the room.

“Couldn’t risk telling me you actually weren’t dead? Are you serious?” John said, disbelief woven through his voice.

“Yes. If I did, there was- I couldn’t find a way to safely contact you and tell you.” Sherlock countered.

John made a ‘tch’ sound as he stared at Sherlock in disbelief. “Anything. A short phone call, a text, a letter for god’s sake! Anything to let me know that you were really alive!” John yelled, sounding hurt that the man didn’t trust him enough.

“John, I would have if… If I sent you anything, and I mean anything, someone could have found out and not only discovered I was still alive, but they would have hurt you as well!” He retorted, his voice rising.

John didn’t speak, only stared at the man with wide eyes. Sherlock really did care and what he had just said was definite proof. He was human after all. “You… I didn’t know…” Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, either trying to hide embarrassment at being found sentimental or disgust at John being over-sentimental. He chuckled and looked at the detective with delight. Sherlock could be such a child sometimes, but that never stopped him from staying around.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing, just…” John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “…What do you mean by ‘they’?” he finally asked.

“John, really. I know you’re not a consulting detective, but even you should be able to figure this out.” Sherlock stated.

After a few moments of contemplation, John’s eyes alit with wisdom and he said, “Moriarty’s men. Right?”

Sherlock nodded. “I knew from Mycroft that they were monitoring you. I had to get rid of them before telling you anything. And since I was done ‘cleaning up’, so to speak, I thought it best to just come and tell you myself that I wasn’t, well, dead. So… here we are.” He answered.

John dipped his head in agreement and replied, “Yes… Here we are.”

They sat in silence for a few moments just glancing at each other, unspoken words being said between them. Words that spoke of relief and desire to know more about what happened to each other the last two years. Sherlock was staring at John, worried that he might get up and take off again, leaving the detective all alone. He could see the man’s mind working, mulling over all that he had just been told, and took this time to appreciate John being here. Here for him, and listening to his case. John was a judge now and whether or not he decided to stay with Sherlock, all depended on him.

Finally, John spoke. “Did you know?”

Sherlock’s brows drew together quickly, but he immediately relaxed his face. “Know what?”

“That I mourned. I cried, I got low, I didn’t do anything for a whole 6 months. Did you know that?”

The dark-haired man’s mouth opened slightly, as if to say something, but shut it and instead nodded his head solemnly.

“And you let me?” He asked, a bit more miffed now.

“…John I couldn’t do anything. I told you-“

“Yes, Sherlock, I know! I know what you told me! But you didn’t even care did you? Because you’re Sherlock Holmes and you don’t have feelings and don’t care for others! God!” John made as if to get up, but decided against it and continued shouting at the detective. “Why do you do this, hm? Why? Why do you constantly insist on making my life a living hell when I’ve always been there for you? When others call you freak or psychopath, I never left. Never left when you tested my patience to the limit and dragged me along with you everywhere you wanted to go and I took care of you. I took care of you, and this is how you repay me? No. I’m not going to take that. Why did you leave me, Sherlock? Why didn’t you get someone, anyone in the world, to tell me that you weren’t dead?”

“Because I didn’t want you do die, John!” Sherlock was sitting upright in his chair now, ready to grab the doctor if he even thought of leaving. “I thought of every possibility of contacting you and none of them would work! I would be hunted down by Moriarty’s leftovers and you would be killed as well! I didn’t want that! I never wanted that! I never will want that!” After his turn at shouting, he said, more softly, “Why are normal people so difficult…”

John swallowed and stared with wide eyes at Sherlock. He never really yelled back at him when he started yelling. This was a first. And he said that he didn’t want him to die. That was obvious from the lengths he went to just to ensure that John wouldn’t be shot by Moriarty’s snipers. What he had said touched him, but that didn’t change the fact that Sherlock was still a spoiled ass for doing nothing to alleviate John’s grief.

“I’m sorry, John. I really am. Please believe me… Forgive me, for God’s sake.” He said with his hands flat together in a pleading gesture.

“Sherlock, you think I wouldn’t forgive you?” John’s disbelief evident in his voice.

The detective furrowed his brow and leaned back, a bit taken aback. “Well, yes. You made it seem quite clear that you had no intention of… forgiving me.” He said with an earnest expression.

“Of course I forgive you. Of course. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed off at you.”

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Human emotions are much too complex.”

John laughed and moved to get up, but was stopped by a hand on his leg.

“John, I am sorry. Do you believe me? I never wanted to hurt you. You were… are my only friend, John. I don’t want to lose you.”

John, surprised by his affectionate words placed his hand on Sherlock’s and said, “I believe you. And you won’t lose me. No matter what. I promise, Sherlock.”

The detective smiled at this and slowly removed his hand, relishing John’s touch that lingered on it. John got up from the chair and stretched. He was stiff from sitting tensely and yelling so long, his bones creaking as he moved. Sherlock got up as well, straightening his suit and brushing off the dust that had settled on it. They stood there for a few moments, not sure what to do, when John announced.

“Well, I’ve got to get home. I promised I’d cook dinner tonight.”

Sherlock’s head whipped in his direction, scanning the man for anything he had missed earlier. There was light hair on his shoulder- blonde, short, clean and well washed, probably there from a hug- and his clothes did smell different- flower-scented detergent, hung up to dry and not put in a dryer. “For who?” He asked.

“Oh, right you don’t know. Mary. I met her a while after… after the incident with you… and she, well, she helped me become normal again instead of sulking everywhere. Maybe you can meet her sometime.”

“You live together?” He asked, felling an odd burning sensation in his chest and face- jealousy, why? He hadn’t really meant to ask that question, it sort of just forced its way out.

“Well… yes. We have for… a year now, if I remember correctly.” John looked curiously at Sherlock. “Something wrong? Your face is kinda red.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a fraction at the realization that his signs of jealousy were noticeable. “Hmm? No. Nothing’s wrong, just… felling a bit tired. I need some sleep, is all. Nothing’s wrong.” He reiterated.

John gave the man a humoring nod and said, “Well… I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Yes. Tomorrow is fine.” The taller man replied.

The shorter man nodded again and waved at Sherlock. “I’ll come by after work. Same time as today? Be seeing you.” He said as he exited the door to the flat. Now Sherlock was alone. Well alone with his thoughts, at least. So, not completely alone. Just without John. Again. He felt he lost the battle of talking John into coming back to him, to stay with him and solve cases, and to scold him like a child when the man acted like one. He felt he lost because of this ‘Mary’.

No matter. He would find out who she was soon enough. And he could easily coerce john into moving back into the flat with him. It’s not like John could be serious with anyone, especially with Sherlock back. Could he?

Sherlock shook his head, scattering the doubtful thoughts from his mind and went back to his chair to think about what he could do with the rest of his time. He could visit Lestrade and let the DI know that the Great Consulting Detective was back in London and he was ready for cases to solve. He glanced at the clock. It was past time for the DI to be at the office, but Sherlock didn’t think he would mind a nice surprise at home or the bar, whichever place he was.

Of course, he could also cancel Mrs. Hudson’s vacation and expect her back in a few days, but that would be a few days with nothing to do. He could also visit Molly and kindly ask her to let him look at some autopsies to fill him time. But she would be constantly buzzing around him like some annoying insect that always found its way back into his space. Sherlock pulled a face and dismissed the idea of seeing Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade it was.

The detective got up from the familiar chair and grabbed his coat, pulling it on before putting his phone in his pocket. He debated calling Mycroft to find out where the DI was without wasting time possibly visiting both the man’s home and the bar he frequented. He decided against it and made up his mind to visit the bar first. Most likely, from the news he been seeing, he would go out for a drink from a hard day at work. Smiling to himself, glad to be back in London and getting John back- almost completely- he left the flat and made his way downstairs, his destination set in his mind.


	6. To Speak Of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a talk with Lestrade about John.

Sherlock climbed into the cab he had hailed to ride to the bar where Lestrade was most likely be. He sat in the backseat of the vehicle and stared out the window, not really focusing on anything in particular. He was thinking. Thinking of ways he could reintroduce himself to the DI and not get punched or rejected again. He touched is cheek in memory of where John had hit him. He was still reeling from the surprise of John doing that. He knew he was angry, but still… John didn’t usually resort to violence with the detective.

 _Something must be bothering him. He might have something on his mind…_ thought the detective.

He shifted in his seat and made a resolve to find out if John was truly alright now. And he also made a mental reminder to be more… sentimental with people. More tolerant of ‘normal’ people. Sherlock made a tired, half-disgusted face at the thought of normal people. How utterly boring they could be. But he was willing to try if it helped rebuild his relationship with John. He had to try for him.

As his thoughts finished flying through his mind, the cabbie stopped at the selected bar and held out his hand for the payment. The sleuth fished the money out of his pocket, handed it to the cabbie, and got out of the car. He stood outside for a few minutes, taking in the foul-smelling building through his scrutinizing eyes, looking for signs of Lestrade. After a few moments of scanning the lot, he finally spotted the man’s car. A beaten up old tan car, that Sherlock didn’t have the time to ever remember the name of, mostly because he liked to pick on the DI whenever he could, was parked near the door. The dark-haired man smiled a bit to himself and wrapped his coat around himself tighter and entered the bar.

The second he walked in the smells of sweat and alcohol assailed his nose, causing him to scrunch it up reflexively. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand for a moment before realizing he would have to get used to the smell and lowering his hand. He looked around the room for a man with gray hair, probably hunched over his drink thinking about all the work he still has to do and no consulting detecti- ah there he was.

Lestrade was sitting at the bar itself and had his shoulders leaned over his drink and occasionally took a large gulp from the glass. He was wearing a dark gray trench coat that covered the empty gun holster on his hip- he never takes the gun anywhere he frequents when he’s off duty- and his normal black slacks and collared shirt. And- surprisingly- he was smoking. Sherlock stopped for a moment, a bit taken aback. For as long as he had known the DI and he never had any indication that the man would go back to smoking instead of using the patches. He tried to deduce why he was smoking again from where he was- about 10 feet away-, but was unable to due to people constantly walking in his way and the distance between him and Letrade.

Sherlock sighed and shrugged. He would just have to get close to the man- which meant him seeing Sherlock- to see the reasons and to tell him he wasn’t dead, of course. He pushed his way through the people in the bar and stood behind Lestrade for a few minutes, deducing everything he could about his before he decided to speak.

“Those things’ll kill you, you know.” Sherlock mumbled.

The DI turned around, cigarette in mouth, and took a moment to just stare at the man. Not again… Sherlock thought. This was the exact way John had reacted initially and the detective did not feel like getting punched again. But, contrary to Sherlock’s thoughts, Lestrade dropped the cigarette from his mouth, got up from his seat, and gave the detective a firm, yet oddly comforting, embrace. The sleuth endured the physical contact, keeping in mind this was how normal people react to things like this so he had to be tolerant. It wasn’t easy, letting the DI hug him for a few moments, but he did brave it and let Lestrade cope in his own way.

A few moments of standing there just hugging and the man let go of the detective and said, “Sherlock… you… you’re not…”

Sherlock nodded and mentally rolled his eyes. What was it with people and sentiment that blocked the ability to finish a sentence? It was infuriating, but the dark-haired man dealt with it. Mostly as practice for John and his emotions. “Yes. I’m not dead. I never was, not for a second.” He said.

“But… We all saw-er- heard that you… well you jumped from the top of a building.”

“Yes, rumors can be quite a nasty lie sometimes, can’t they?” He replied, hoping to avoid explaining how he survived to the DI.

“Oh, you bastard…” Lestrade muttered to himself. “I- well… Christ, what do I say? ‘Welcome back’?” He asked.

“I suppose, if you want to. If that’s what people do.” Sherlock said vaguely.

“Well then,” the gray-haired man said, “Welcome back!” He wrapped an arm around Sherlock and urged him to sit at the bar with him. “Anything you want, as long as you explain some things to me.”

Sherlock shook his head once and replied, “No, I’m fine. But I did assume you would have questions. So just ask them. I’ve got nothing better to do.” He tried to give Lestrade a hint that he needed a case to pacify his boredom, but the other man didn’t take the hint.

“Well… I don’t know…” He took a swig of his drink. “I guess the first question is how’d you do it?”

Sherlock kept his mouth pressed together and shook his head, letting the DI know that a topic of that nature was not to be discussed.

The older man shrugged and said, “Hmm… Does anyone else know? Or did you come to me first so you could have a case before you try to deal with us ‘normal’ people?”

“Um… John knows. I told him- he knows…”

Lestrade wasn’t an ignorant man, so when Sherlock Holmes tripped over his own words, when he normally flies through explanations at a mile a minute, he could tell that something was wrong. “What, and I’m guessing it didn’t go too well?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to deny the man’s assumption, but quickly shut it and slowly shook his head. “He… didn’t take the news as well as you are.” He said simply. The DI gestured to the detective to continue his story. The dark-haired man sighed and his shoulders drooped a bit at the irrational guilt he felt regarding John. “He hit me and we yelled for a bit. He left the flat and the next day, today, I went to see him at work and he didn’t like that, of course, especially after telling me to stay away from him. But, I convinced him to see me at the flat again and we talked and yelled and eventually controlled ourselves enough to have a conversation like civilized people. And currently, he his back home and I am waiting until tomorrow for his response.” Sherlock said, finishing his tale.

“Well, I mean, you kinda deserved it.” Lestrade said past the drink at his mouth.

Sherlock gave the DI a confused, if not offended, look. “What do you mean?”

“Well you did make him think you were dead. You should have seen him, Sherlock. Even you would have felt guilty for how you affected him.”

The dark-haired man, still a little confused, asked for an explanation.

“Well, he was… I guess depressed, but that doesn’t cover it. He was just so out of it. He wouldn’t eat, he either slept too much or too little, he would yell at friends for almost no reason, he would just seclude himself form everyone. And, for the first few months, he wouldn’t leave the flat. Mrs. Hudson would have to bring food up there to make sure he at least had some, regardless if he would eat it or not.”

Sherlock’s eyes latched onto the floor as he listened to Lestrade’s account of John’s behavior after the Fall. He hadn’t known it was that bad. He had expected John to react like a normal person, to cry, to become depressed at one point or another, but eventually he would get over it. Sherlock based his predictions of John’s reactions on their relationship- just friends, as the man always said. He was glad John at least thought that much of him. He didn’t expect more, but how he responded to Sherlock’s ‘death’ made him think the man thought them more than ‘just friends’.

“What… what else?...” Sherlock asked.

“… What do you mean?”

“You’re keeping something from me. I can tell. You’re a terrible liar, George.”

“It’s Greg and… Well he…”

“Yes?” Sherlock said impatiently.

“He tried to kill himself, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s whole body flinched at the information. John had tried to kill himself? He definitely hadn’t expected him to do that. “Why?” He asked, suddenly alarmed.

Greg looked at Sherlock with incredulous eyes. “Because, Sherlock, he thought you died. We all did.”

“But you didn’t try to- didn’t attempt-“ Sherlock sighed in frustration, unwilling to complete the sentence. That would mean believing what Lestrade had told him and he didn’t want to accept it. “But why?? You didn’t… react like that. Why did he? He… shouldn’t care so much…”

The DI eyes softened and set his glass down. He looked at Sherlock, seeming to see into him. “Do you not know?”

“Know what??” he asked desperately. “That I caused him so much pain. That I couldn’t be there when he really needed someone. That I- that I am at fault for it almost happening?”

“No, Sherlock. How he… Don’t tell him I told you, but… how he feels about you.”

Sherlock, dumbfounded, just stared at the gray-haired man for a moment before asking, “What do you mean? Our friendship?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. We all know that you two were more than just friends. Everyone could see it.”

“What? No- no. We weren’t- we were just flatmates. Nothing more.” The dark-haired man stuttered.

“Well, that’s not how he felt about you.” The older man replied.

Sherlock just stared blankly at the DI for a few moments. His mind seemed to be short-circuiting. He never fathomed that anyone, John of all people, could have… feelings for him. Feelings that were more than what you had for friends, more than flatmates. He had thought the looks they shared were just misinterpreted on his part. That whenever they were close, it was only Sherlock’s heart that would beat a little faster. When they laughed together or went on cases together, Sherlock thought it was only him that felt everything was right, he was right where he belonged.

It seemed he was wrong. For the first time, the great consulting detective couldn’t deduce what was the most important thing to him. He couldn’t deduce John. He had been too caught up in his confusion over the feelings he had himself. He had never experienced anything near what he felt when he was around John. And he was too blind to see that John did, in fact, have feelings for Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked concerned.

“Hm?” Sherlock hummed, still distracted with his thoughts.

“You all right?”

“Hm? Yes, I’m fine. Perfectly fine.” The detective was still reeling from the information of John trying to commit suicide and the news that he had feelings for him didn’t help to ground him back to earth. Though he couldn’t just believe something because he wanted it to be true- he needed evidence for both the doctor’s actions and his feelings.

“How do you know?” He asked suddenly.

Greg had returned to his drink and was staring off into space, waiting for the sleuth to snap back into reality when Sherlock asked the question. “What?”

“How do you know? For both the… suicide attempt… and his… uh… feelings.”

“Well he talked to me once about you. He was drunk and he said some things he didn’t remember saying to me later on. He was speaking of how you were purposely ignoring him at times and he felt that you didn’t love him back. He also said that he wished you would just ask him to dinner or something already.”

“… he always said to people he wasn’t my date or that he wasn’t gay. I believed him. He would always bring women home in hopes of-“

Lestrade held his hand up. “Yeah, I get the picture. And he isn’t gay, but he could be bi. And I know what I heard. I hadn’t drank as much as John had that night.”

The taller man decided to believe the DI and stored the information away in his mind. He would have to go back and analyze other interactions with John to verify the information. “And what about the… him trying to… kill himself? How do you know that?”

“… I was going to the flat- he was still living there at the time- to see if he wanted to help on a case. You know get him out for a bit, make sure he was doing okay… I walked into the flat and he was sitting in your chair… and he had a gun in his mouth.” Lestrade said solemnly. “It was fully loaded. When I got the gun from him he broke down. He just… I’ve never seen a man so broken before, Sherlock. It was horrible. He kept mumbling about ‘not being able to go on without him’ and ‘what and idiot he is’. He was talking about you, Sherlock.” He said, staring at Sherlock with knowing eyes. He was waiting for Sherlock to react, not sure how he would take the information. He hadn’t held back anything because he knew the detective would want all the facts, sentiment, for this occasion, included.

Sherlock eyes glazed over. He was thoroughly shocked. He had never known or could have ever predicted that John would react that way. That wasn’t a part of his plan. “What did you do afterwards? You stayed with him right?”

“Course I did. And when I wasn’t there I asked Mrs. Hudson to stay with him. We took his gun away and I kept it at my house until he started to come out of his shell. I only gave it back once I was sure he wouldn’t try it again. And he didn’t, thank God.”

“How long ago was it?”

“About a month and a half after you… left, so to speak.”

“I never knew…” Sherlock said, feeling guilt wash over him like a tidal wave. “Geor-Greg. What do I do?” He asked.

Lestrade stared at Sherlock with wide eyes. Never in a million years did he think Sherlock Holmes would ask him for help, on anything. That was admitting defeat, to an extent, and he had never known the detective to do that. “Well… if you’re worried about him, talk to him again. And listen to him for God’s sake, don’t just yell back if he starts yelling.”

“… Alright.” He replied.

“… So he really punched you?” The DI asked, trying to lighten the mood.

It apparently worked because Sherlock smirked a bit and said, “Yes. In the face too.” Lestrade howled with laughter.

“Serves you right, you bastard!”

Sherlock chuckled and gave a shy smile. Then he had an abrupt realization. He was more human than he let himself believe. He didn’t know where the thought came from or why, but sitting here and sharing a laugh with Greg, talking about John, and getting away from Work made him feel the most normal he had ever felt in his life. At first he was a little disgusted at the thought of him having sentiment and being even slightly normal, but he soon realized that it was better to have feeling towards people. It gave him a renewed reason in life besides Work, which wasn’t always there for him. He decided it was better to have people there for him and listen and help him. It was quite a new experience.


	7. Mind Over Sentiment

The next morning, Sherlock was pacing around the flat impatiently, waiting for the time to come when John would revisit him. Once the detective had left Lestrade at the bar last night, he had gone out for materials for an experiment that involved ammonia and fingernails. Surprisingly the fingernails were easier to come by than the special type of ammonia he needed.

Last night he had a lot to think about John regarding his feelings, his attempted suicide, and whether or not he should mention either of these things. Sherlock felt he needed… closure on both subjects, but was completely stuck on how to approach either of them. Obviously, the sleuth would have to be the one to bring them up as John might not be inclined to tell him about the suicide attempt nor his feelings towards him. Especially now that he was living with some woman named Mary. He had no clue who this woman was or anything about her besides that she had short, blonde hair and was living with John. Well knowing nothing else about her would be a lie. From that information he could deduce that she was a hard-working woman and took things seriously. That said that she had a commanding attitude, much like John could have at times, and that she was most likely good at being sociable. Not much else could be found out due to the lack of information.

Sherlock stopped his pacing and sighed deeply. He felt defeated. His feelings towards John were causing extreme levels of stress and high levels of endorphins being released, which never happened unless he was on a particularly touch case. John had been the only one to be able to do that and the dark-haired man wasn’t sure whether to hate him or love him for it. His friend had opened his eyes to a new world that Sherlock thought he could never experience because of his lack of feelings. It’s not like he ever really wanted to, but on a few occasions he felt he was missing out on something but could never place what that something was. When John had entered his life, he found that that something was feelings for other people, no matter how insignificant the sentiment may have seemed. John had changed him completely and Sherlock was glad that he was able to do so. He was glad it was John who had been the one to do so.

The detective had been standing in the same spot for a few minutes with his hands clasped behind his back and finally realized he was smiling like a fool to himself. He immediately frowned and began his pacing again to keep himself from acting and looking like an idiot. It’s not like anyone was there to see him smiling for no apparent reason, but it was still foreign to the man to have feelings like this for someone. It was quite spectacular, he admitted, for one person to affect another so thoroughly and efficiently by just being who they were. Sherlock never would have thought he would let anyone so close to him in his life, yet here he was. Smiling and thinking about one person constantly instead of working on a case.

Sherlock gave a small huff of laughter at his situation when he heard the door downstairs being opened- John. The dark-haired man rushed to his seat and picked up the violin and bow that had been resting against it, sat down, and began playing at the middle of a song he knew, as if he had been playing the whole time he was thinking and pacing.

He was almost finished with the song by the time the door to the flat opened. John slowly opened the door and peeked his head in- looking for Sherlock and not wanting to disturb him like he thought he did last time. When he noticed Sherlock in the seat, he opened the door fully and stepped into the flat and smiled at the detective. Instead of deducing how well he slept last night or whether or not he had taken a shower this morning, Sherlock looked back at John attentively and smiled back brightly at him.

“Good morning, John.” He said a bit too enthusiastically. He made a mental note to calm himself when he noticed John’s look of confusion at the man’s apparent eagerness.

“Yeah, morning, Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallowed. An image of him holding a gun in his mouth flashed through his mind and he struggled to keep the subject at bay. Instead of blurting out anything that would give away his inner thoughts, he simply asked, “How did you sleep?” Wrong. He never asked how he slept. He would have to do better than that. Sherlock face contorted somewhat, but the question was out.

“…Fine… And you?” He said, noticing Sherlock wince.

“You know I don’t sleep a normal schedule.” He replied smoothly. He was getting more control of himself now. Good.

“Right. Forgot.”

An awkward silence ensued in which Sherlock found it harder than ever not to utter anything regarding he and Greg’s talk last night. He was just deciding whether to mention the supposed feelings or the attempted suicide when John spoke.

“So. I guess you need some answers from me this time, huh?” He asked with a soft expression.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he felt that John had seen into his thoughts and wanted to know if he had to explain himself. But he was too dumbstruck at the possibility of the thought to form an intelligent sentence. All he said was, “What?”

John furrowed his brow for a moment before explaining, “I don’t know, I guess it’s my turn to answer questions. I got most of mine answered yesterday. It’s your turn to ask and all. I mean if you even have questions, that is.”

The dark-haired man froze. He did have questions. Questions that he probably shouldn’t ask. But there was nothing else on his mind and he couldn’t seem to think of anything else to ask the man. So, he started by saying, “I talked with Lestrade last night…”

The doctor nodded once and said slowly, “Okay… and? What does this have to do with…” he trailed off as the possibilities of what Greg and Sherlock could have talked about ran through his mind. The potential conversations weren’t ones John appreciated. “What did you two talk about?” He asked, his voice a bit more stern.

“Well…” Sherlock cleared his throat, “You, mostly.”

“…What about me, Sherlock.” The detective swallowed hard and attempted to continue, even though John’s hard stare was making that into a serious challenge. “Well… Umm… Just you. And…”

“Yes?”

Sherlock rose from his seat and slowly walked over to John. He tentatively placed his hands on his shoulder, unsure of initiating physical touch. “He said…” He made a quick decision to use the suicide attempt as the first topic, his feelings for John’s safety getting the better of his own selfish feelings for him. He exhaled and spoke. “He said you… tried to kill yourself, John.”

John just stood there, frozen in place, eyes wide, and body tense. He didn’t seem to be breathing and if it weren’t for the fact he was standing upright, Sherlock might have thought him dead. They stood like that for several long moments- Sherlock’s hands on John’s shoulders, searching his face for any movement and John was completely still except for the slight rise and fall of his chest when he breathed.

Finally, John took a deep inhale and opened his mouth, as if to say something, but shut it. His eyes were avoiding Sherlock’s and were focused on the window across from him, on the traffic outside and the buildings in the distance. He saw himself sitting in Sherlock’s chair, holding the gun to his mouth, thinking of every misfortune that had befallen him in his life. He wasn’t thinking of the good he had had, just the bad. Of the wound in his shoulder and how he was crippled forever- he would never be whole again. Of how life had been so unfulfilling after his time in the war. Of how low he got when therapy didn’t seem to help. And most of all, Sherlock leaving him. Alone. Broken. Dead.

He had felt he had died the day Sherlock had left. No, it wasn’t death. It was something so much worse. Something worse than death, it was unbearable. So he had loaded his gun one day, when he was sick of everyone nagging him to ‘get out’ and ‘do something’ and ‘you’ll be okay’, and he put it in his mouth, ready to shoot. If only Lestrade hadn’t walked in wanting to nag him, he could have been long gone by now. He wouldn’t have to think about the bad anymore.

Yet, here he was. With Sherlock’s hands on him and him saying something to him. He snapped out of his reverie and focused on the garbled words the man was speaking.

“…okay? John? Are you alright? John??” He asked over and over again.

“…I’m fine… Sherlock, alright, I’m alright!” he yelled. He backed up and pushed the man’s hands off of him.

“John, you... you spaced out. What… happened?”

“When do you mean?” He asked, suddenly spiteful.

“… Earlier.”

“When I tried to kill myself?” John supplied angrily.

“… Yes, I suppose. I’d like to ask about that as well…” The taller man replied evenly. “What… Jesus, I don’t even know what I’m asking… I guess I want to know… why, John?”

John’s look of incredulity was almost funny, if given a different situation. “Why? You left me all alone, completely alone, and you want to know why I couldn’t take it anymore?”

“John, there was no need to-“

“No need to try and escape from it all?! Because you left me, after everything we’ve been through. I thought you trusted me. I had no clue why the hell you jumped from the building that day and I blamed it all on myself for not being there for you! I thought I could have saved you if I had been a better friend! But I couldn’t do anything! And you wonder why I didn’t want to feel that way anymore?”

“John-“

“No, Sherlock! You’re such an _idiot_. You have no clue what normal people think or feel. Explaining any of this to you would be a waste of my breath and time.”

“John, listen to me!” Sherlock yelled, effectively halting John’s rant. “I know! I know you felt like you couldn’t deal with it all! And I am sorry. I never thought, never imagined, you would react in the way you did.” He said, softening his voice. “If I had known, I would have told you everything. But I couldn’t risk it, not with the consequences that would be involved. And don’t you dare say I didn’t trust you, John. You are the only person I have ever truly let into my life so don’t you ever say you weren’t a good friend. That you aren’t a good friend. You were there for me more than you could ever imagine possible. You saved me from… myself, John. But even though you tried so hard, even though I appreciate every minute of your attempts, you couldn’t stop Moriarty. If you had tried, you would have died. And you would have been dead for real and it wouldn’t have been just a magic trick. And do you think I would be able to deal with you being dead? No, I wouldn’t. I would probably would have gotten as low as you did. But I protected you from him, but not from you. I never knew, John. Now…” Sherlock swallowed, afraid he had done something wrong, going on the aggravated look on John’s face. “John please…. don’t do anything like that ever again.” Attempting to lighten the heavy mood he added, “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

It didn’t seem to work as John’s frown stayed right where it was on his face and his stare grew hard. “Sherlock... I just didn’t know what to do. You knew my therapy wasn’t really helping with my problems with PTSD and the war. How could I expect it to help with something like you… dying. To me, it looked like you killed yourself. So I was trying to follow you. Because I could never last…” He paused, looking a little uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Never last without you, Sherlock.”

The dark-haired man froze. So John did have feelings for Sherlock. He still did. Those words couldn’t have been interpreted any other way, given the situation. Sherlock thought John would have been okay when he had the Fall since they were just friends, but since he hadn’t been okay, it showed that John thought of them as more than friends. And the words he had just spoken had proved that.

 _Get ahold of yourself, Sherlock. This isn’t what you two need to be talking about anyways._ The detective thought to himself. “John, I told you before…” What was he doing? This was his chance to confess his feeling to John, and he was using his normal copout of ‘I’m married to my work’. “I’m... I don’t think about things like that…” He swallowed hard. “… John… Lestrade and I also talked about… us. About your… feelings for me.” He left it at that, hoping John would continue the conversation for him.

The doctor’s cheeks immediately reddened and he tore his gaze away from the taller man’s eyes. “That was… nothing, Sherlock. It was… before.” Sherlock could tell that his friend was lying, trying to avoid being truthful on this subject.

The sleuth recognized that John would not be willing to further discuss this topic so he took the initiative to continue it himself. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and tried to relax the tension in his chest. “John, I… felt… _feel_ the same way…”

At this, John looked straight at Sherlock with wide, disbelieving eyes. He only had time to take in a breath to speak before he saw the dark-haired man move swiftly towards him. Suddenly, the man’s hands were cupping his face and his lips were crashing into his.


	8. Their Hearts Beat Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's hearts find the same beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there will be one more chapter and more of an epilogue of what happens with John and Mary's relationship. ^^ Happy reading!

“John, I… felt… feel the same way…” He said before cupping his face and crashing his lips into John’s.

The shorter man made a muffled sound of surprise and his whole body tensed. He hadn’t been expecting Sherlock to do that. He could feel the man’s pulse from his lips on his own and could taste him on his mouth. John’s sensitive yet rough lips were slack as Sherlock kissed him and he soon felt the man’s discomfort, as if he felt he had done something wrong. He could see the man’s eyebrows knotted tight and slanted upwards in worried fear.

Slowly, John reached his hands towards Sherlock’s head and cupped his cheeks. He closed his eyes and kissed him back. The dark-haired man let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and melted into the other man’s touch, lips, and embrace. They kissed with fervor, adding pressure to each other’s lips with each second that passed. Their hearts, racing now, found the same beat, fast, stuttering, and hard.

Sherlock opened his mouth, allowing John to press his tongue forward if he wished to. The doctor took the hint and pushed his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, exploring it with intensity. The detective sighed softly with pleasure and wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders, pulling him close. He could feel John’s excitement through the layers of their clothing and panicked for a moment, for reasons unknown.

John apparently knew that Sherlock could feel his arousal and abruptly stepped back, effectively breaking off their kiss and embrace.

“I- I can’t. I’m sorry. I…” John said breathing quickly. He felt guilty about what he had just done and it was written all over his face.

“It’s- it’s fine. It’s alright.” Sherlock soothed stepping towards John again and lifting his hands to his face.

John batted away the taller man’s hand and said sternly, “No, it’s not alright. I can’t do this- I’m with- I have Mary. I can’t just… do this just because you’re actually not dead. I can’t…” He dropped his head in his hands, remorseful at the whole situation.

Things had been going wonderful with Mary. Perfect even. But when Sherlock had shown up, everything seemed to have shifted. His main focus in life now was Sherlock. Sherlock this, Sherlock that. Everything that had to do with Sherlock was constantly on his mind. He couldn’t help it. He had had intense feelings for the detective before he had left and he still thought about him even though he had someone else to care for and think about.

It was pointless for him to try and deny the feelings he had for Sherlock, but he was supposed to think about Mary like he did Sherlock. He was supposed to look at Mary like he did Sherlock. He was supposed to care about Mary like he did Sherlock. But that had never happened.

He cared about her, yes, even loved her, but not like he cared about the sleuth. And now that Sherlock was back, John didn’t see the point in keeping himself from what he had wanted for so long.

But he could never stand to see the heartbreak in Mary’s eyes if he told her he was in love with someone else. In love with Sherlock.

John shook his head and lifted his face from his hands to see Sherlock staring dismally at the carpet, shoulders completely slack and head drooped low. To say he was sad would have been a severe understatement.

“Sherlock I… I don’t know anymore, okay? Don’t look like that, please…” John begged. He couldn’t stand to see Sherlock so dejected and knowing he was the cause of it didn’t help.

“What were you thinking about?” The detective asked quietly. His eyes looked slightly wet and his mouth was set in a deep frown.

“... Just… the situation, I guess.” John replied.

“You were thinking about Mary. You’re guilty about us- about a few moments ago.” Sherlock stated as if he was relaying facts.

“Yes.” John said running a hand through his hair. “It’s all so confusing now, Sherlock…”

“We can just… at least try to go back to normal. I can forget about it all. Delete it from my Mind Palace. It’ll be like it never happened.” Then he added slowly. “If that’s what you want.”

“No, no. It’s just... I need time to work this out. We can see what happens when I get my thoughts sorted. Alright? I’ll, uh, come by when I’ve got some answers of what to do about this situation.”

At that moment Sherlock’s phone pinged from his coat pocket. He fished it out and looked at the screen.

“Text from Gray-“

“Greg.” John corrected with a slight chuckle

“Whatever. It says he’s got a case for me- us.” Sherlock replied looking at John hopefully.

“Well, let’s go see what he’s got for us.” John said with a smile. He grabbed his jacket and followed Sherlock out the door, a smile on both of their lips. They might not be in the greatest situation regarding their relationship, but that didn’t keep them from solving cases together. Being like this, their more platonic relationship, was worth more than a million hearts beating together.


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when John and Sherlock decide to tell Mary about their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to recent events, I need a new editor. Please email me at triforcelegends8@gmail.com and I will give you an interview of sorts. Contact me if you're interested.

After they solved the case, Sherlock and John had a talk of what to do about their current situation. It was an awkward talk, given Sherlock’s tendency to be blunt. He told John that he had never before experienced such feelings as he did for him. He told him how confused he was about those feelings and how much he resented having them distract him from Work. He finally accepted the feelings one day. They day of the Fall. Sherlock realized the fear of having to live without John and the hatred for himself for having to leave John alone.

John sat the whole time listening to Sherlock with a half-smile and loving eyes. Once Sherlock was done with his story, John began his own tale of suppressed feelings. It was mostly the same as Sherlock’s except he had met Mary, who had helped him get out of his depression over his loss. He found love even after all that had happened to him. He thought he would never experience such emotion for someone again. But he was wrong. Mary and Sherlock both held a special place in his heart. He didn’t want to lose either of them.

After the two were done talking about their love in the past, they moved on to the more pressing topic. What to do about the relationship. They didn’t want to just call it off because John was in a relationship with Mary. And John didn’t want to end things with her, either. To John, it all seemed hopeless and he would be stuck trying to choose one or the other. But, for Sherlock, there were two options. They could either tell Mary about their relationship and hope she would learn to be alright with it or they could not tell Mary and what she won’t know wouldn’t hurt her. John preferred the former due to his distaste for lying to someone he loved. But he just wasn’t sure how everything would end up. He was panicking and pacing in the flat mumbling to himself about it all going wrong and only stopped when Sherlock told him his deductions he made about the woman.

Regarding her character and possible responses to the news of John and Sherlock, the sleuth deduced she would be shocked at first, then uncertain that John actually loved her, but would eventually come around. Sherlock even made a guessed that she would want John to happy and therefore would want John and Sherlock to be together. John, doubtful that his deductions were one-hundred percent correct, argued with the other man about it. He told him there was no way that even the great Consulting Detective could tell the future. Sherlock, on the other hand, assured John of his foretelling and told him they should tell her immediately. The shorter man eventually agreed to Sherlock’s plan and they both left the flat on a mission.

* * *

 

When they found Mary at her flat, they told her the whole story of the two. Before and after the Fall, excluding the awkward kiss of course, and she listened quietly the whole time. When they finished, she got up from her chair and kissed them both. John, who was not as taken aback as Sherlock, hugged Mary, kissed her, told her how much he loved her, and what a wonderful girlfriend she was. She had accepted the news with joy.

She had always thought there was something between the two, but never had the gall to ask if her suspicions were right. She wanted John to be happy and so she never ventured to even mention the detective. But from the stories she heard from others, rumors included, the two had been together. Although her curiosity wanted to get the best of her, she never asked about John and Sherlock’s past relationship, afraid of bringing up bad memories.

The day she had met Sherlock, she instantly felt something for him. Not love, not exactly. It was something less, but more important. Over the next few days, she had time to think about the man and how she had felt around him and she had concluded that she had feelings for him. Still not love, at least not yet. But it was just as valuable, if not more.

From then on, the three were together, each loving one another. They had fights, of course, but they solved them eventually, becoming closer than ever each time. And they lived like that. John loving Sherlock and Mary, Sherlock loving John and Mary, and Mary loving Sherlock and John.


End file.
